Bui 


CO 
CD 
•H 

QD 


AN'     ALL    OF    A     SUDDEN     SOMEBODY     SAID 
DON'T    THE     BOY     KNOW     HIS     MOTHER?" 


I See  page  24 
"MY    GOD! 


IN  VARIOUS  MOODS 

POEMS   AND  VERSES 


BY 
IRVING     BACHELLER 


HARPER  6-  BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 

NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 

M  C  M  X 


Copyright,  1910,  by  IRVING  BACHELLER 

Published  September,  1910. 
Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


TJISLI 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


THE  SOWERS i 

THE  NEW  WORLD 5 

FAITH 9 

BALLAD  OF  THE  SABRE  CROSS  AND  7     ...  14 

WHISPERIN'  BILL 20 

THE  RED  DEW 27 

THE  BABY  CORPS 33 

PICTURE,  SOUND  AND  SONG       41 

THE  VEN'SON-TREE 44 

HIM  AN'  ME 48 

A  VOICE  OF  THE  FIELDS 55 

THE  WEAVER'S  DYE 57 

THE  SLUMBER  SHIP 58 

THE  ROBIN'S  WEDDING 61 

OLD  HOME,  GOOD-BYE! 64 

THE  RUSTIC  DANCE 66 

To  A  DEAD  CLASSMATE 69 

OF  GOD  OR  CAESAR 72 

DEAR  TO  MY  GOD  ARE  THE  RILLS   .     .     .     .  73 


M512442 


.  -  =   : . s      : : _~ 


THE  SOWERS 

Written  for  the  Fiftieth  Anniversary  of  the  Founding 
of  St.  Lawrence  University 

I  know  the  hills  that  lift  the  distant  plain, 
The  college  hall — the  spirit  of  its  throngs, 

The  meadows  and  the  waving  fields  of  grain, 
Full  well  I  know  their  colors  and  their  songs. 

I  know  the  storied  gates  where  love  was  told, 
The  grove  where  walked  the  muses  and  the  seers, 

The  river,  dark  or  touched  with  light  of  gold, 
Or  slow,  or  swift  so  like  the  flowing  years. 

I  know  not  these  who  sadly  sit  them  down 
And  while  the  night  in  half-forgotten  days; 

I  know  not  these  who  wear  the  hoary  crown 
And  find  a  pathos  in  the  merry  lays, 
[i] 


Here  Memory,  with  old  wisdom  on  her  lips, 
A  finger  points  at  each  familiar  name — 

Some  writ  on  water,  stone  or  stranded  ships, 
Some  in  the  music  of  the  trump  of  fame. 

Here  oft,  I  think,  beloved  voices  call 

Behind  a  weathered  door  'neath  ancient  trees, 

I  hear  sad  echoes  in  the  empty  hall, 

The  wide  world's  lyric  in  the  harping  breeze. 

It  sings  of  them  I  loved  and  left  of  old, 

Of  my  fond  hope  to  bring  a  worthy  prize — 

Some  well-earned  token,  better  far  than  gold, 
And  lay  it  humbly  down  before  their  eyes, 

And  tell  them  it  were  rightly  theirs — not  mine, 
An  harvest  come  of  their  own  word  and  deed; 

I  strove  with  tares  that  threatened  my  design 
To  make  the  crop  as  noble  as  the  seed. 

So  they  might  see  it  paid — that  life  they  knew — 
A  toilsome  web  and  knit  of  many  a  skein, 


With  love's  sweet  sacrifice  all  woven  through, 
And  broken  threads  of  hope  and  joy  and  pain. 

On  root-bound  acres,  pent  with  rocks  and  stones, 

Their  hope  of  wealth  and  leisure  slowly  died. 
They  gave  their  strengtn  in  toil  that  racked  their 

bones, 
They  gave  their  youth,  their  beauty,  and  their  pride 

Ere  Nature's  last  defence  had  been  withdrawn 
That  those  they  loved  might  have  what  they  could 
not — 

The  power  of  learning  wedded  to  their  brawn 
And  to  the  simple  virtue  there  begot. 

My  college!     Once — it  was  a  day  of  old — 
I  saw  thy  panes  aglow  with  sunset  fire 

And  heard  the  story  of  thy  purpose  told 
And  felt  the  tide  of  infinite  desire. 

In  thee  I  saw  the  gates  of  mystery 

That  led  to  dream-lit,  vast,  inviting  lands — 

[3] 


Far  backward  to  the  bourne  of  history 

And  forward  to  the  House  not  made  with  hands. 

You  gave  the  husbandman  a  richer  yield 
Than  any  that  his  granary  may  hold; 

You  called  his  children  from  the  shop  and  field, 
Taught  them  to  sow  and  reap  an     undredfold. 

To  sow  the  seed  of  truth  and  hope  and  peace, 
And  take  the  root  of  error  from  the  sod; 

To  be  of  those  who  make  the  sure  increase, 
Forever  growing,  in  the  lands  of  God. 


[4] 


THE  NEW  WORLD 

Read  before  the  Lambda  Chapter  of  Phi  Beta  Kappa, 
June  24,  1902 

Idle  gods  of  Old  Olympus— Zeus  and  his  immortal 

clan, 
Grown  in  stature,  grace  and  wisdom,  meekly  serve 

the  will  of  man. 
Every  elemental  giant  has  been  trained  to  seek  and 

raise 
Gates  of  the  "impossible"  that  lead  to  undiscovered 

ways. 

Man  hath  come  to  stranger  things  than  ever  bard 
or  prophet  saw. 

Lo,  he  sits  in  judgment  on  the  gods  and  doth  amend 
their  law. 

Now  reality  with  wonder-deed  of  ancient  fable  teems — 

Fact  is  wrought  of  golden  fancy  from  the  old  Ho 
meric  dreams. 

[5] 


Zeus,  with  thought  to  load  the  fulmen  gathered  for 
his  mighty  sling, 

Hurls  across  the  ocean  desert  as  'twere  ut  a  pebble- 
fling; 

Titans  move  the  gathered  harvests,  push  the  loaded 
ship  and  train, 

Rushing  swiftly  'twixt  horizons,  shoulder  to  the 
hurricane. 

Hermes,  of  the  winged  sandal,  strides  from  mid 
day  into  night. 

Pallas,  with  a  nobler  passion,  turns  the  hero  from 
his  fight. 

Vulcan  melts  the  sundered  mountain  into  girder, 
beam  and  frieze. 

Where  the  mighty  wheel  is  turning  hear  the  groan 
of  Hercules. 

Eyes   of  man,    forever    reaching   where    immensity 

envails, 
View  the  ships  of  God  in  full  career  with  light  upon 

their  sails. 

[6] 


Read  the  tonnage,  log,  and  compass — measure  each 

magnetic  chain 
Fastened  to  the  fiery  engine  towing  in  the  upper 

main. 

Man  hath  searched  the  small  infernos,  narrow  as  a 

needle's  eye, 
Rent  the  veil  of  littleness  'neath  which  unnumbered 

dragons  lie. 
Conquered    pain    with    halted    feeling,    baned    the 

falling  House  of  Life, 
As  with  breeding  rats  infested,  ravening  in  bloody 

strife. 

Change  hath   shorn  the  distances   from  little  unto 

mighty  things — 
Aye,  from  man  to  God,   from   poor   to   rich,   from 

peasants  unto  kings. 
Justice,  keen-eyed,  Saxon-hearted,  scans  the  records 

of  the  world, 
Makes  the  heartless  tyrant  tremble  when  her  stern 

rebuke  is  hurled. 

[7] 


Thought-ways,  reaching  under  oceans  or  above  the 
mountain  height, 

Drain  to  distant,  darkened  realms  the  ceaseless  over 
flow  of  light. 

In  the  shortened  ways  of  travel  Charity  shall  seek 
her  goal, 

Find  the  love  her  burden  merits  in  the  commerce 
of  the  soul. 

Right  must  rule  in  earth  and  heaven,  though  its 

coming  here  be  slow; 
Gods  must  grow  in  grace  and  wisdom  as  the  mind 

of  man  doth  grow; 
Law  and  Prophet  be  forgotten,  deities  uprise  and 

fall 
Till  one  God,  one  hope,  one  rule  of  life  be  great 

enough  for  all. 


[8] 


FAITH 

Being  some  words  of  counsel  from  an  old  Yankee 
to  his  son  Bill  when  the  latter  is  about  to  enter  college. 

Faith,  Bill  ?     You  remember  how  ye  used  to  wake 

an*  cry, 

An'  when  I  lit  a  candle  how  the  bugaboos  Vd  fly  ? 
Well,  faith  is  like  a   father  in  the  dark  of  every 

night — 
It  tells   ye  not  t'   be  afraid,  an'  mebbe  strikes  a 

light. 

Now,  don't  expect  too  much  o'  God,  it  wouldn't 

be  quite   fair 
If  fer  anything  ye  wanted  ye  could  only  swap  a 

prayer; 
I'd  pray  fer  yours,  an'  you  fer  mine,  an'  Deacon 

Henry  Hospur, 
He  wouldn't  hev  a  thing  t'  do  but  lay  abed  an* 

prosper. 

[9] 


If  all  things  come  so  easy,  Bill,  they'd  hev  but  little 

worth, 
An'  some  one  with  a  gift  o'  prayer  Vd  mebbe  own 

the  earth. 
It's  the  toil  ye  give  t'  git  a  thing — the  sweat  an' 

blood  an'  care — 
That  makes  the  kind   o'   argument  that  ought  to 

back  yer  prayer. 

Per  the  record  o'  yer  doin' — I  believe  the  soul  is 
planned 

With  some  self-workin'  register  t'  tell  jest  how  ye 
stand. 

An'  it  won't  take  any  cipherin'  t'  show,  that  fear 
ful  day, 

If  ye've  multiplied  yer  talents  well,  er  thrown  'em 
all  away. 

When  yer  feet  are  on  the  summit,  an'  the  wide  hori 
zon  clears, 

An'  ye  look  back  on  yer  pathway  windin'  thro*  the 
vale  o'  tears; 

[10] 


When  ye  see  how  much  ye've  trespassed,  an'  how 

fur  ye've  gone  astray, 
Ye'll  know  the  way  o'  Providence  ain't  apt  t'  be 

your  way. 

God  knows  as  much  as  can  be  known,  but  I  don't 

think  it's  true 
He  knows  of  all  the  dangers  in  the  path  o'  me  an' 

you. 
If  I  shet  my  eyes  an*  hurl  a  stun  that  kills — the 

King  o'  Siam, 
The  chances  are  that  God  '11  be  as  much  surprised 

as  I  am. 

If  ye  pray  with  faith  believing  why,  ye'll  certainly 

receive, 
But  that  God  '11  break  His  own  good  law  is  more'n 

I'll  believe. 
If  it  grieves  Him  when  a  sparrow  falls,  it's  sure  as 

anything, 
He'd  hev  turned  the  arrow,  if  He  could,  that  broke 

the  sparrow's  wing. 

[u] 


Ye  can  read  old  Nature's  history  that's  writ  in  rocks 

an'  stones, 
Ye  can  see  her  throbbin'  vitals  an'  her  mighty  rack 

o'  bones, 
But  the  soul  o'  her — the  livin'  God,  a  little  child 

may  know 
No  lens  er  rule  o'  cipherin'  can  ever  hope  t'  show. 

There's  a  part  o'  God's  creation  very  handy  t'  yer 

view, 
AH  the  truth  o'  life  is  in  it  an'  remember,  Bill,  it's 

you. 
An'  after  all  yer  science   ye  must  look  up  in  yer 

mind 
An'  learn  its  own  astronomy  the  star  o'  peace  t'  find. 

There's  good  old  Aunt  Samanthy  Jane  that  all  her 

journey  long 

Has  led  her  heart  to  labor  with  a  reveille  of  song. 
Her  folks  hev  robbed  an'  left  her,  but  her  faith  in 

goodness  grows; 
She  hasn't  any  larnin',  but  I  tell  ye,  Bill,  she  knows! 


She's  hed  her  share  o'  troubles;    I  remember  well 

the  day 
We  took  her  t'  the  poor-house — she  was  singin'  all 

the  way. 
Ye  needn't  be  afraid  t'  come  where  stormy  Jordan 

flows, 
If  all  the  1'arnin'  ye  can  git  has  taught  ye  half  she 

knows. 

There's   a    many   big   departments   in   this   ancient 

school  o'  God, 
An'  ye  keep  right  on  a  Parnin'  till  ye  lay  beneath 

the  sod, 
All  the  books  an*   apperaytus,   all  the  wisdom  o' 

the  seers 
Will  be  jest  a  preparation  fer  the  study  o'  the  years. 


BALLAD  OF  THE  SABRE  CROSS  AND  7 

A  troop  of  sorrels  led  by  Vic  and   then  a  troop  of 

bays, 
In   the   backward   ranks  of  the   foaming   flanks   a 

double  troop  of  grays; 
The  horses  are  galloping  muzzle  to  tail,  and  back 

of  the   waving   manes 
The  troopers  sit,  their  brows  all  knit,  a  left  hand 

on  the  reins. 


Their  hats  are  gray,  and  their  shirts  of  blue  have 

a  sabre  cross  and  7, 
And  little  they  know,  when  the  trumpeters  blow, 

they'll  halt  at  the  gates  of  heaven. 
Their  colors  have  dipped  at  the  top  of  a  ridge — 

how  the  long  line  of  cavalry  waves! — 
And  over  the  hills,  at  a  gallop  that  kills,  they  are 

riding  to  get  to  their  graves. 

[14] 


"I  heard  the  scouts  jabber  all  night,"  said  one; 
"they  peppered  my  dreams  with  alarm. 

"That  old  Ree  scout  had  his  medicine  out  an' 
was  tryin'  to  fix  up  a  charm." 

There  are  miles  of  tepees  just  ahead,  and  the  war 
riors  in  hollow  and  vale 

Lie  low  in  the  grass  till  the  troopers  pass  and  then 
they  creep  over  the  trail. 

The  trumpets  have    sounded — the  General  shouts! 

He  pulls  up  and  turns  to  the  rear; 
"We  can't  go  back — they've  covered  our  track — 

we've  got  t'  fight  'em  here." 
He  rushes  a  troop  to  the  point  of  the  ridge,  where 

the  valley  opens  wide, 
And  Smith  deploys  a  line  of  the  boys  to   stop  the 

coming  tide. 

A  tire  flames  up  on  the  skirt   of  the  hills;    in  every 

deep  ravine 
The  savages  yell,  like  the  fiends    of  hell,  behind  a 

smoky  screen. 
2  t'Sl 


"Where's  Reno?"  said  Custer.  "Why  don't  he 
charge  ?  It  isn't  a  time  to  dally!" 

And  he  waves  his  hat,  this  way  and  that,  as  he 
looks  across  the  valley. 

There's  a  wild  stampede  of  horses ;    every  man  in 

the  skirmish  line 
Stands  at  his  post  as    a  howling  host  rush  up  the 

steep  incline. 
Their  rifles  answer  a  deadly  fire  and  they  fall  with 

a  fighting  frown, 
Till  two  by  two,  in  a  row  of  blue,  the  skirmish  line 

is  down. 

A  trooper  stood  over  his  wounded  mate.     "No  use 

o'  yer  tryin'  t'  fight, 
"Blow    out    yer    brains — you'll    suffer    hell-pains 

when  ye  go  to  the  torture  to-night. 
"We  tackled  too  much;    'twas  a  desperate  game — 

I  knowed  we  never  could  win  it. 
"Custer    is   dead — they're   all   of  'em   dead   an'   I 

shall  be  dead  in  a  minute." 
[16] 


They're  all  of  them  down  at  the  top  of  the  ridge; 

the  sabre  cross   and   7 
On  many  a  breast,  as  it  lies  at  rest,  is  turned  to  the 

smoky  heaven. 
Three   wounded   men   are   ur    and   away;    they're 

running  hard  for  their  lives, 
While     bloody     corses    of    riders    and    horses    are 

quivering  under  the  knives. 


Some  troopers  watch  from   a  distant  hill  with  hope 

that  never  tires; 
As  the  shadows  fall  on  the   camp  of  Gall  they  can 

see  its  hundred  fires; 
And   phantoms    ride  on   the   dusky   plain   and   the 

troopers  tell  their  fears; 
As  the  bugle  rings,  the  song  it  sings  they  hope  may 

reach  his  ears. 


[I?] 


There's  a  reeling  dance  on  the  river's  edge;  its 
echoes  fill  the  night; 

In  the  valley  dim  its  shadows  swim  on  a  lengthen 
ing  pool  of  light. 

The  scattered  troops  of  Reno  look  and  listen  with 
bated  breath, 

While  bugle  strains  on  lonely  plains  are  searching 
the  valley  of  death. 


cresc.  ff 


1 ' 


"What's    that    like    tumbled    grave-stones    on    the 

hilltop  there  ahead  ?" 
Said  the  trooper   peering   through  his  glass,   "My 

God!    sir,  it's  the  dead! 
"How   white    they    look!     How   white   they    look! 

they've  killed  'em — every  one! 
"An'  they're  stripped  as  bare  as  babies  an'  they're 

rotting  in  the  sun." 

1,8] 


And  Caster— back  of  the  tumbled  line    on  a  slope 

of  the  ridge  we  found  him; 
And  three   men  deep  in  a  bloody  heap,  they  fell  as 

they  rallied  'round  him. 
The  plains  lay  brown,  like    a  halted  sea  held  firm 

by  the  leash  of  God; 
In  the  rolling  waves  we  dug  their  graves    and  left 

them  under  the  sod. 


[10] 


WHISPERIN'  BILL 

So  ye  're  runnin'  fer  Congress,  mister  ?  Le'me  tell 
ye  'bout  my  son — 

Might  make  you  fellers  carefuller  down  there  in 
Washington — 

He  clings  to  his  rifle  an*  uniform — folks  call  him 
Whisperin'  Bill; 

An*  I  tell  ye  the  war  ain't  over  yit  up  here  on  Bow 
man's  Hill. 


This  dooryard  is  his  battle-field — le's  see,  he  was  nigh 

sixteen 
When  Sumter  fell,  an*  as  likely  a  boy  as  ever  this 

world  has  seen; 
An'  what  with  the  news  o'  battles  lost,  the  speeches 

an'  all  the  noise, 
I  guess  ev'ry  farm  in  the  neighborhood  lost  a  part 

of  its  crop  o'  boys. 

[20] 


'T  was  harvest  time  when  Bill  left  home;  ev'ry  stalk 

in  the  fields  o'  rye 
Seemed  to  stan'  tiptoe  to  see  him  off  an'  wave  him 

a  fond  good-bye; 
His  sweetheart  was  here  with  some  other  gals — the 

sassy  little  miss! 
An'  purtendin'  she  wanted  to  whisper'n  his  ear,  she 

give  him  a  rousin'  kiss. 

Oh,  he  was  a  han'some  feller!  an'  tender  an'  brave 

an'  smart, 
An'  though  he  was  bigger'n  I  was,  the  boy  had  a 

woman's  heart. 
I  couldn't  control  my  feelin's,  but  I  tried  with  all 

my  might, 
An'  his  mother  an'  me  stood  a-cryin'  till  Bill  was 

out  o'  sight. 

His  mother  she  often  toP  him,  when  she  knew  he 

was  goin'  away, 
That  God  would  take  care  o'  him,  maybe,  if  he 

didn't  fergit  to  pray; 

[2.] 


An'    on    the    bloodiest    battle-fields,   when    bullets 

whizzed  in  the  air, 
An*  Bill  was  a-fightin*  desperit,  he  used  to  whisper 

a  prayer. 

Oh,  his  comrades  has  often  toF  me  that  Bill  never 

flinched  a  bit 
When  every  second  a  gap  in  the  ranks   tol'  where 

a  ball  had  hit. 
An'  one  night,  when  the  field  was  covered  with  the 

awful  harvest  o'  war, 
They  found  my  boy  'mongst  the  martyrs  o'  the  cause 

he  was  fightin*  for. 

His  fingers  was  clutched  in  the  dewy  grass — oh, 
no,  sir,  he  wasn't  dead, 

But  he  lay  kind  o'  helpless  an'  crazy  with  a  rifle- 
ball  in  his  head; 

An'  he  trembled  with  the  battle-fear  as  he  lay  there 
in  the  dew; 

An'  he  whispered  as  he  tried  to  rise:  "God  '11  take 
care  o'  you." 


An  officer  wrote  an*  to  '  us  how  the  boy  had  been 

hurt  in  the  fight, 
But  he  said  the  doctors  reckoned  they  could  bring 

him  around  all  right. 
An'  then  we  heard   from  a   neighbor,    disabled   at 

Malvern  Hill, 
That  he  thought  in  the  course  of  a  week  or  so  he'd 

be  comin'  home  with  Bill. 

We   was  that  anxious  t'  see  him  we'd  set  up  an' 

talk  o'  nights 
Till   the  break  o'   day  had   dimmed  the  stars   an' 

put  out  the  Northern  Lights; 
We  waited  an'  watched  fer  a  month  or  more,  an' 

the  summer  was  nearly  past, 
When  a  letter  come  one  day  that  said  they'd  started 

fer  home  at  last. 

I'll  never  fergit  the  day  Bill  come — 'twas  harvest 

time  again — 
An'  the  air  blown  over  the  yeller  fields  was  sweet 

with   the   scent  o'  the  grain; 

[23] 


The  dooryard  was  full  o'  the  neighbors,  who  had 

come  to  share  our  joy, 
An'  all  of  us  sent  up  a  mighty  cheer  at  the  sight  o' 

that   soldier   boy. 

An*  all  of  a  sudden  somebody  said:     "My  God! 

don't  the  boy  know  his  mother  ?" 
An'  Bill  stood  a-whisperin',  fearful  like,  an'  a-starin' 

from  one  to  another; 
"Don't  be  afraid,  Bill,"  says  he  to  himself,  as  he 

stood  in  his  coat  o'  blue, 
"Why,  God  '11  take  care  o'  you,  Bill,  God  '11  take 

care  o'  you." 

He  seemed  to  be  loadin'  an'  firm'  a  gun,  an*  to  act 

like  a  man  who  hears 
The  awful  roar  o'  the  battle-field  a-soundin'  in  his 

ears; 
Ten  thousan'  ghosts  o'  that  bloody  day  was  marchin' 

through  his  brain 
An'  his  feet  they  kind  o'   picked  their  way  as   if 

they  felt  the  slain. 

[24] 


An'  I  grabbed  his  hand,  an'  says  I  to  Bill,  "Don't 
ye  'member  me  ? 

I'm  yer  father — don't  ye  know  me  ?  How  fright 
ened  ye  seem  to  be!" 

But  the  boy  kep'  a-whisperin'  to  himself,  as  if 
'twas  all  he  knew, 

"God '11  take  o'  you,  Bill,  God '11  take  care  o' 
you." 

He's  never  known  us  since  that  day,  nor  his  sweet 
heart,  an'  never  will; 

Father  an*  mother  an'  sweetheart  are  all  the  same 
to  Bill. 

An'  he  groans  like  a  wounded  soldier,  sometimes 
the  whole  night  through, 

An'  we  smooth  his  head,  an'  say:  "Yes,  Bill, 
He  '11  surely  take  care  o'  you." 

Ye  can  stop  a  war  in   a  minute,  but  when  can  ye 

stop  the  groans  ? 
Fer  ye've  broke  our  hearts    an'  sapped  our  blood 

an*  plucked  away  our  bones. 


An'  ye've  filled  our  souls  with  bitterness  that  goes 
from  sire  to  son, 

So  ye  best  be  kind  o'  careful  down  there  in  Wash 
ington. 


[26! 


THE  RED  DEW 


Being  some  small  account  of  the  war  experience  of 
an  East  River  pilot,  whose  boat  was  the  Susquehanna, 
familiarily  known  as  the  Susq,  and  who  lost  his  leg 
and  more  at  Gettysburg. 


At  de  break  o'  day  I  goes  t'  bed,  an'  I  goes  to  work 

at  dusk, 
Fer  ev'ry  night  dat  a  boat  can  run  I  takes  de  wheel 

o'   de   Susq. 
De  nights  is  long  in   de   pilot-house?     Well,  now 

d'ye  hear  me  speakin'  ? 
No  night  is  long  since  de  one  I  spent  wid  me  sta'b'ard 

side  a-leakin'. 

I'd  gone  t'  de  war  an'  was  all  stove   in,  an'  I  seen 

how  a  little  white  hand 
Can  take  holt  of  a  great  big  chump  like  me  an' 

make   him   drop   his   sand. 


An'  her  face!     De  face  o'  de  Holy  Mary  warn't 

any  sweeter  'n  hern! 
If  ye  like  I'll  set  de  wheel  o'  me  mind  an'  let  'er 

drift  astern. 

We'd  fit  all  day  till  de  sun  was  low  an'  I  t'ought  de 

war  was  fun, 
Till  a  big  ball  skun  de  side  o'  me  face  an'  smashed 

de  end  o'  me  gun. 
Den   anodder  one   kicked   me   foot  off — see?    an* 

I  tell  ye  it  done  it  cunnin', 
An'  I  trun  meself  in  de  grass,  kerplunk,  but  me 

mind  kep'  on  a-runninJ. 

Next  I  knowed  I  was  feelin'  o'  somebody's  face, 

an'  I  seen  de  poor  devil  was  cryin', 
An'  he  tumbled  all  over  me  tryin'  t'  r'ise,  an'  he 

cussed  an'  kep'  turnin'  an'  tryin'; 
"Good  Gawd!"  sez  I,  "what's  de  matter  wid  you? 

Shut  up  yer  face  an'  hark," 
An'  s'  help  me,  de  odder  man's  face  was  mine  an' 

I  was  alone  in  de  dark. 

[28] 


When  I  lay  vvid  me  back  ag'in  de  world  I  seen  how 

little  I  was 
An'  I  knowed,  fer  de  firs'  time  in  me  life,  how  deep 

an'  broad  de  sky  was; 
An'  me  mind  kep'  a-wanderin'  off  'n  de  night,  till 

it  stopped  where  de   Bowery  ends, 
An'  come  back  a-sighin'  an'  says  t'  me  dat  it  couldn't 

find  no  friends. 

Den  I   fumbled  me    breat'  till    I    cert'inly   t'ought 

I  never  could  ketch  it  ag'in. 
If  I'd  bin  a-bawlin'  t'  git  a  prize  ye  bet  cher  life 

I'd  'a'  win. 
If  ye're  dyin'  an'  ain't  no  home  in  de  world  an' 

yer  fr'ends  is  all  on  de  shelf, 
An'  dere's  nobody  else  t'  bawl  fer  ye — ye're  goin* 

t'  bawl  fer  yerself. 

De  sun  peeped  over  de  hills  at  last,  an*  as  soon  as 

I  seen  his  rim 
De  dew  in  de  valley  was  all  afire  wid  a  sort  o*  a 

ruby  glim. 

[29] 


De    blue    coats    lay    in    de    tumbled    grass — some 

stirrin'  but  most  o'  'em  dead — 
Ton  me  word,  de  poor  devils  had  bled  so  much, 

de  dew  in  de  valley  were  red! 

An*  what    d'ye  t'ink  ?    de  nex'  t'ing  I  knowed,  a 

lady  had  holt  o'  me  hand, 
An*  smoothed  de  frills  all  out  o'  me  face  an*  brushed 

off  de  dew  an*  de  sand. 
No  lady  had  ever  mammied  me  an*  I  were  scairt 

so  I  dassent  say  boo, 
I  warn't  in  no  shape  t'  help  meself  an'  I   didn't 

know  what  she'd  do. 

An'  me  heart  was  a-t'umpin'  ag'in  me  ribs,  an*  me 

lettin*  on  I  was  dead! 
Till  she  put  down  her  cheek  so  close  to  me  mug 

dat  I  had  t'  move  me  head. 
An'  she  lifted  me  head  wid  her  sof'  white  hands 

an'  I  don't  know  all  she  done; 
I  was  blubberin'  so  dat  I  couldn't  see,  but  I  knowed 

I  were  havin'  fun. 

[30] 


I  lay  wid  me  head  'n  de  lady's  lap  while  de  doctors 

cut  an*  sawed, 
An*  dey  hurted  me  so  dat  me  eyes  was  sot,  but  I 

never  cussed  er  jawed. 
An*  she  patted  me  cheek  an*  spoke  so  soF  dat  I 

didn't  move  a  peg, 
An'  I  t'ought  if  dey'd  let  me  lay  dere  awhile  dey 

could  saw  off  de  odder  leg. 

Fer  de  loss  o'  me  leg,  t'ree  times  a  year,  I  gets  me 
little  wad, 

But  dere  ain't  any  pension  fer  losin'  yer  heart  un 
less  it  comes  from  Gawd. 

If  anythin'  busts  ye  there,  me  boy,  I  t'ink  ye'll  be 
apt  t'  find 

Ye'll  either  drop  out  o'  de  game  o'  life,  er  else  go 
lame  in  yer  mind. 

I   never  c'u'd   know   de   reason   why,   till   de   lady 

helt  me  head, 
Dat  a  man  '11  go  broke  fer  de  woman  he  loves  er 

mebbe  fight  till  he's  dead. 


When  I  t'inks  dat  I  never  had  no  friends  an'  what 

am  I  livin'  fer  ? 
I  fergits  dat  I'm  holdin'  de  wheel  o'  de  Susq,  an' 

I  sets  an'  t'inks  o'  her. 

An'  I  t'inks  how  gentle  she  spoke  t'  me,  an'  I  t'inks 
o'  her  sof ,  white  hand, 

An'  de  feel  o'  her  fingers  on  me  face  when  she 
brushed  off  de  dew  an'  de  sand. 

An'  I  set  a-t'inkin'  an'  turnin'  me  wheel,  some 
times  de  whole  night  t'rough, 

An'  de  good  Gawd  knows  I'd  a  giv'  me  life,  if  she'd 
only  'a'  loved  me  too. 


[32] 


THE  BABY  CORPS 

Being  some  account  of  the  little  cadets  of  the  Vir 
ginia  Military  Institute,  who  stood  the  examination 
of  war  at  New  Market,  Fa.,  May  15,  1864,  in  the  front 
line  of  the  Confederate  forces,  where  more  than  three 
hundred  answered  to  their  names  and  all  were  perfect. 

We  were  only  a  lot  of  little  boys — they  called  us  a 

baby  corps — 
At    the     Institute     in     Lexington     in     the    winter 

of  '64; 
And  the  New  Year  brought  to  the  stricken  South 

no  end  of  the  war  in  sight, 
But  we  thought  we  could  whip  the  North  in  a  week 

if  they'd  only  let  us  fight. 

One  night  when  the  boys  were  all  abed  we  heard 

the  long  roll  beat, 
And  quickly  the  walls  of  the  building  shook  with 

the  tread  of  hurrying  feet; 

[33] 


And  when  the  battalion  stood  in  line  we  heard  the 

welcome  warning: 
"  Breckinridge    needs   the    help   o*   the   corps;     be 

ready  to  march  in  the  morning." 

And    many   a    boastful   tale  was  told,  through  the 

lingering  hours  of  night, 
And  the  teller  fenced  with    airy  foes   and   showed 

how  heroes  fight. 
And  notes  of  love  were  written  with  many  a  fevered 

sigh, 
That  breathed  the  solemn  sacrifice  of  those  about 

to  die. 

Some  sat  in  nature's  uniform  patching  their  suits 

of  gray, 
And  some  stood  squinting  across  their  guns  in  a 

darkly  suggestive  way. 
The  battalion  was  off  on  the  Staunton  pike  as  soon 

as  the  sun  had  risen, 
And  we  turned  and  cheered  for  the  Institute,  but 

yesterday  a  prison. 

[34] 


At  Staunton  the  soldiers  chaffed  us,  and  the  girls 

of  the  city  schools 
Giggled  and  flirted  around  the  corps  till  we  felt  like 

a  lot  of  fools; 
They  threw  us  kisses  and  tiny  drums  and  a  volley 

of  baby  rattles, 
'Til  we  thought  that  the  fire  of  ridicule  was  worse 

than  the  fire  of  battles. 

We  made  our  escape  in  the  early  dawn,  and,  camp 
ing  the  second  night, 

Were  well  on  our  way  to  the  seat  of  war,  with  Har- 
risonburg  in  sight; 

And  the  troopers  who  met  us,  riding  fast  from  the 
thick  of  the  army  hives, 

Said:  "Sigel  has  come  with  an  awful  force,  and 
ye'll  have  to  fight  fer  yer  lives.'* 

But  we  wanted  to  fight,  and  the  peril  of  war  never 

weakened   our  young  desires, 
And  the  third  day  out  we  camped  at  dusk  in  sight 

of  the  picket  fires; 

[35] 


Our   thoughts,   wing-weary   with   homeward   flight, 

went  astray  in  the  gloomy  skies, 
And  our  hearts  were  beating  a   reveille  whenever 

we  closed  our  eyes. 

"Hark!      what's     that?     The     sentry    call?"     (A 

galloping  horseman   comes.) 
"Hey,  boys!     Get  up!     There's  something  wrong! 

Don't  ye  hear  'em  a-thumpin'  the  drums  ?" 
Said  the  captain,  who  sat  in  the  light  of  the  fire 

tying  his  muddy  shoes: 
"We  must  toe  the  line  of  the  Yankees  soon,  an* 

we  haven't  much  time  to  lose. 

"Hats   off!"     And   we   all   stood   silent   while   the 

captain  raised  his  hand 
And   prayed,   imploring  the  God  of  war  to  favor 

his  little  band. 
His  voice  went  out  in  a  whisper  at  last,  and  then 

without   further   remark 
He  bade  the  battalion  form  in  fours,  and  led  us 

away  in  the  dark. 

[36] 


We  lamed  our  legs  on  the  heavy  road  and  a  long 

rain  cooled  our  blood 
And  every  time  we  raised  a  foot  we  could  hear  the 

suck  of  the  mud. 
At  noon  we  came — a  weary  lot — to  the  top  of  a 

big  clay  hill, 
And  below  were  miles  of  infantry — the  whole  bunch 

standing  still. 

The    league-long   hills   are   striped   with    blue,   the 

valley  is  lined  with  gray, 
And  between  the  armies  of  North  and  South  are 

blossoming  fields  of  May. 
There's  a  mighty  cheer  in  the  Southern  host  as, 

led  by  the  fife  and  drum, 
To  the  front  of  the  lines  with  a  fearless  tread  our 

baby  cadets  have  come. 

"Forward!"  The  air  is  quaking  now;  a  shrill- 
voiced,  angry  yell 

Answers  the  roar  of  the  musketry  and  the  scream 
of  the  rifled  shell. 

[37] 


The  gray  ranks  rushing,  horse  and  foot,  at  the  flam 
ing  wall  of  blue 

Break  a  hole  in  its  centre,  and  some  one  shouts: 
"See  the  little  cadets  go  through!" 

A  shell  shoots  out  of  its  hood  of  smoke,  and  slows 

mid-air  and  leaps 
At  our  corps  that  is  crossing  a  field  of  wheat,  and 

we  stagger  and  fall  in  heaps; 
We  close  the  ranks,  and  they  break  again,  when  a 

dozen  more  fall  dying; 
And  some  too  hurt  to  use  their  guns  stand  up  with 

the  others  trying. 

"Lie  down  an*  give  'em  a  volley,  boys — quick  there, 

every  one! 
"Lie  down,  you  little  devils! — Down!     It's   better 

to   die   than   run." 
And  huddling  under  the  tender  wheat,  the  living  lay 

down  with  the  dead, 
And  you  couldn't  have  lifted  your  finger  then  with^ 

out  touching  a  piece  of  lead. 


"Look   up  in   the  sky  and  see  the  shells  go  over 

a-whiskin'  their  tails"; 
"Better  not  lift  yer  hand  too  high  or  the  bullets 

'11  trim  yer  nails." 
Said  the  captain,  "Forward,  you  who  can!"     In  a 

jiffy  I'm  off  on  my  feet 
An'  up  to  their  muzzles   a-clubbin'    my    gun,  an' 

the  Yanks  have  begun  a  retreat. 

Said    a     wounded     boy,     peering    over    the  grain, 

"Hurrah!     See  our  banner  a-flyin'! 
"Wish  I  was   there,  but  I  can't   get  up — I   wonder 

if  I'm  a-dyin'  ? 
"O  Jim!    did   you    ever  hear   of  a  man  that    lived 

that  was  hit  in  the  head  ? 
"Say,   Jim!    did    you    ever    hear    of  a    man   that 

lived—     My  God!    Jim's  dead!" 

A  mist,  like  a  web  that  is  heavy  with  prey,  is  caught 

in  the  green  o'  the  fields; 
It  breaks  and  is  parted  as  if  a  soul  were  struggling 

where  it  yields; 

[39] 


The  twilight  deepens  and  hushes  all,  save  the  beat 
ing  of  distant  drums, 

And  over  the  shuddering  deep  of  the  air  a  wave  of 
silence  comes. 

By  lantern  light  we  found  the  boys  where  under  the 

wheat  they  lay 
As   if  sleep — soft-fingered,   compelling   sleep! — had 

come  in  the  midst  of  play. 
The   captain   said   of  the   bloody  charge   and   the 

soldiers  who  fought  so  well: 
"The  army  had  to  follow  the  boys  if  they  entered 

the  flames  o'  hell." 


[40] 


PICTURE,  SOUND  AND  SONG 

The    battle   roar   is   ended   and   the   twilight    falls 

again, 
The  bugles  have  blown,  the  hosts  have  flown  save 

they  in  the  dusky  grain. 
And  lo!  the  shaking  barley  tells  where  the  wounded 

writhe  and  roll; 
With  a  panting  breath  at  the  pass  of  death  the  body 

fights  for  the  soul. 
Some  rise  to  retreat  and  they  die  on  their  feet  in 

this  terrible  fight  for  the  soul. 


And  horses  urged  by  the  spur  of  Death  are  gallop 
ing  over  the  grain; 

Their  hoofs  are  red,  their  riders  are  dead,  and 
loose  are  the  stirrup  and  rein. 

A  ghost  in  the  saddle  is  riding  them  down,  the 
spurs  of  Pain  at  his  heels; 

[41] 


They  are  cut  to  the  bone,  they  rush  and  they  groan, 

as  a  wake  in  the  barley  reels: 
And  faces  rise  with  haggard  eyes  where  the    wake 

in  the  barley  reels. 

The  blue  and  the  gray  lie  face  to  face  and  their 

fingers  harrow  the  loam, 
There's  a  sob  and  a  prayer  in  the  smoky  air  as 

their  winged  thoughts  fly  home. 
The   Devil  of  war  has   dimmed  the  sky  with   the 

breath  of  his  iron  lungs, 
And  he  gluts  his  ear  on  the  note  of  fear  in  the  cry 

of  the  fevered  tongues; 
Like  the  toll  of  a  bell  at  the  gate  of  hell  is  the  wail 

of  the  fevered  tongues. 

One  rising,  walked  from  the  bullet  shock,  seems  to 

reel  'neath  the  weight  of  his  head, 
He  feels  for  his  gun  and  starts  to  run  and  falls  in  a 

hollow — dead. 
The  wagons  are  coming  and  over  each  the  light  of 

a  lantern   swings, 

[42] 


And  a  holy  thought  to  the  soul  is  brought,  as  the 

voice  of  a  driver  sings; 
And  the  cry  of  pain  in  the  trampled  grain  is  hushed 

as  the  driver  sings: 

My  country,  'tis  of  thee, 
Sweet  land  of  liberty, 
Of  thee  I  sing. 


[43 


THE  VEN'SON-TREE 

The  busy  cranes  go  back  an'  forth,  a-ploughin'  up 

the  sky, 
The   wild   goose    drag   comes   down   the   wind   an* 

goes    a-roarin'    by; 
The  song-birds  sow  their  music  in  the  blue  fields 

over  me 
An'  it    seems  to  grow  up  into  thoughts  about  the 

ven'son-tree. 


The  apple-blossoms  scatter  down — a  scented  sum 
mer  snow, 

An*  man  an'  wind  an'  cloud  an'  sun  have  all  begun 
to  sow. 

The  green  hopes  come  a-sproutin'  up  somewhere 
inside  o'  me, 

An'  it's  time  we  ought  to  see  the  sprouts  upon  the 
ven'son-tree. 

[44] 


The  velvet  leaves  the  willow  an'  adorns  the  ven'son 

bough, 
There's  new  silk  in  the  tree-top  an'  the  coat  o'  horse 

an'  cow. 
The  woods  are  trimmed    fer  weddin's,  an'  are  all 

in  Sunday  clo's, 
An*  the  bark  upon  the  ven'son-tree  is  redder  than 

a  rose. 

The  days  are  still  an'  smoky,  an'  the  nights  are 
growin'  cold, 

The  maples  are  a-drippin'  blood,  the  beeches 
drippin'  gold; 

The  briers  are  above  my  head,  the  brakes  above 
my  knee, 

An'  the  bark  is  gettin'  kind  o'  blue  upon  the  ven 'son- 
tree. 

What  makes  the  big  trees  shake  an'  groan  as   if 

they  all  had  sinned  ? 
'Tis  God  A'mighty's  reaper  with  the  horses  o'  the 

wind. 

[45] 


He  will  hitch  with  chains  o'  lightnin',  He  will  urge 

with   thunder  call, 
He   will    try   the    rotten-hearted   till   they    reel    an' 

break  an'  fall. 

The  leaves  are  driftin'  in  the  breeze,  an*  gathered 

where  they  lie 
Are  the  colors  o'   the  sunset   an'  the  smell  o'  the 

windy  sky; 
The  squirrels  whisk,  with  loaded  mouths,  an'  stop 

an'  say  to  me: 
"It's  time  to  gether  in  the  fruit  upon  the  ven'son- 

tree." 

"What  makes  ye  look  so  anxious  an'  what  makes 

ye  speak  so  low  ?" 
"It's  'cause   I'm  thinkin'  of  a   place  where   I'm   a- 

goin'  to  go. 
"This  here  I've,  been  a-tinkerin'  which  lays   acrost 

my  knee 
"Is  the  axe  that  I'm  a-usin'  fer  to  fell  the  ven'son- 

tree." 

[46] 


I've  polished  up  the  iron  an'  I've  covered  it  with  ile, 
Its   bit   is   only  half  an   inch,    its    helve    is    half   a 

mile. 

(The  singer  blows  an  imitation  of  the  startled  deer) 
"Whew!    what's    that    so    pesky — why,    it    kind    o' 

frightened  me  ?" 
"It's  the  wind   a   blowin'  through  the   top   o'  the 

cute  ol'  ven'son-tree." 


[47] 


HIM  AN'  ME 

Being  a  story  of  the  Adirondack*  told  by  me  in  the 
words  of  him  who  had  borne  with  buck-fever  and  bad 
marksmanship  until,  having  been  long  out  of  meat  and 
patience,  he  put  his  confidence  in  me  and  we  sallied 
forth. 

We'd   greased   our  tongues  with   bacon   'til  they'd 

shy  at  food  an'  fork 
An*  the  trails  o'  thought  were  slippery  an'  slopin' 

towards  New  York; 
An*  our  gizzards  shook  an'  trembled  an'  were  most 

uncommon  hot 
An*  the  oaths  were  slippin'  easy  from  the  tongue 

o'  Philo  Scott. 

Then  skyward  rose  a  flapjack  an'  a  hefty  oath  he 

swore 
An'  he  spoke  of  all  his  sufferin'  which  he  couldn't 

stan'  no  more; 

[48] 


An*  the  flapjack  got  to  jumpin'   like  a   rabbit  on 

the  run 
As  he  give  his  compliments  to  them  who  couldn't 

p'int  a  gun. 

He  told  how  deer  would  let  'em  come  an'  stan'  an' 

rest   an'    shoot 
An'  how  bold  an'  how  insultin'  they  would  eye  the 

tenderfoot; 
How    he — Fide    Scott — was    hankerin'    fer    suthin' 

fit  to  eat 
" !"  says   he.     "Le's  you   an'   me  go  out  an' 

find  some  meat." 

We  paddled  off  a-whisperin'  beneath  the  long  birch 

limbs 
An'  we  snooked  along  as  silent  as  a  sucker  when 

he   swims; 
I   could   hear  him   slow  his   paddle   as   eroun'  the 

turns  he  bore; 
I  could  hear  his  neck  a-creakin'  while  his  eye  run 

up  the  shore. 

[49] 


An'  soon  we  come  acrost  a   buck  as  big  an'  bold 

as  sin 
An*    Philo    took    t'    swallerin'    to    keep    his    feel- 

in's  in; 
An'  every  time  he  swallered,  as  he  slowly  swung 

eroun', 
I  could  hear  his  Adam's  apple  go  a-squeakin'   up 

an'  down. 

He  sot  an'  worked  his  paddle  jest  as  skilful  as  he 

could 
An*  we  went  on  slow  an'  careless,  like  a  chunk  o' 

floatin'  wood: 
An'  I  kind  o'  shook  an'  shivered  an'  the  pesky  ol' 

canoe 
It  seemed  to  feel  as  I  did,  for  it  shook  an'  shivered 

too. 

I    sot    there,    full    o'    deviltry,    a-p'intin'    with    the 

gun> 
An'  we  come  up  clost  and  closter,  but  the  deer  he 

didn't  run; 

[50] 


An*  Philo  shut  his  teeth  so  hard  he  split  his  brier- 
root 

As  he  held  his  breath  a-waitirT  an'  expectin'  me  to 
shoot. 

I   could  kind  o'   feel  him  hanker,   I  could   kind  o' 

hear  him  think, 
An'  we'd  come  so  nigh  the  animal  we  didn't  dast 

to  wink, 

But  I  kep'  on  a-p'intin'  of  the  rifle  at  the  deer 
Jest    as   if  I   was   expectin'    fer    to    stick    it    in    his 

ear. 

An'  Philo  tetched  the  gunnel  soft  an'  shook  it  with 

his  knee; 

I  kind  o'  felt  him  nudgin'  an'  a-wishin'  he  was  me, 
But  I  kep'  on  a-p'intin',  with  a  foolish  kind  o'  grin, 
Enjoyin'  all  the  wickedness  that  he  was  holdin'  in. 

An'  of  a  sudden  I  could  feel  a  tremble  in  his  feet; 
I  knew  that  he  was  gettin'  mad  an'  fillin'  up  with 
heat. 

[5'] 


His   breath   come   fast  an'   faster,   but  he  couldn't 

say  a  damn — 
He'd  the   feelin's  of  a  panther  an'  the  quiet  of  a 

lamb. 

An*  his  foot  come  creepin'  for'ards  an'  he  tetched 

me  with  his  boot 
An'   he   whispered    low   an'   anxious,   an   says    he: 

"Why  don't  ye  shoot?" 
An'  the  buck  he  see  the  time  had  come  fer  him  an' 

us  to  part 
An'  away  he  ran  as  Philo  pulled  the  trigger  of  his 

heart. 

He  had  panthers  in  his  bosom,  he  had  horns  upon 

his  mind; 
An*  the  panthers  spit  an'  rassled  an'  their  fur  riz 

up  behind; 
An'  he  gored  me  with  his  languidge  an'  he  clawed 

me  with  his  eye 
'Til  I  wisht  that,  when  I  done  him  dirt,  I  hadn't 

been  so  nigh. 

[52] 


He  scairt  the  fish  beneath  us  an'  the  birds  upon  the 

shore 
An'  he  spoke  of  all  his  sufferin'  which  he  couldn't 

stan'  no  more; 
Then  he  sot  an'  thought  an'  muttered  as  he  pushed 

a   mile   er  so 
Like  a  man  that's  lost  an'  weary  on  the  mountain 

of  his  woe. 

An'  he  eyed  me  over  cur'ous  an'  with  pity  on  his 

face 
An'  he  seemed  to  be  a  sortin'  words  to  make  'em 

fit  the  case. 
"Of  all  the  harmless  critters  that  I  ever  met,"  says 

he, 
"There  ain't  not  none  more  harmlesser — my  God! — 

than  what  you   be." 

An'  he  added,  kind  o'  sorrowful,  an'  hove  a  mighty 

sigh : 
"I'd  be  'shamed  t'  meet  another  deer  an'  look  him 

in  the  eye. 

[53] 


God  knows  a  man  that  p'ints  so  never  orter  hev  no 

grub, 
What  game  are  you  expectin*  fer  t*  slaughter  with 

a  club?" 

An'   I  answered  with  a  riddle:    "It  has  head  an' 

eyes  an'  feet 
An'  is  black  an'  white  an*  harmless,  but  a  fearful 

thing  to  meet; 

It's  a  long  an'  pesky  animal  as  any  in  the  county; 
Can't  ye  guess  ? — I've  ketched  a  pome  an'  I'll  give 

ye  half  the  bounty." 


[54] 


A  VOICE  OF  THE  FIELDS 

The  red  was  on  the  clover  an'  the  blue  was  in  the 

sky; 
There  was  music  in  the  meadow,  there  was  dancing 

in  the  rye, 
An'  I  heard  her  call  the  scattered  flock  in  pastures 

far  away 
An'  the  echo  in  the  wooded  hills:  "Co'  day!    Co' 

day!    Co'   day!" 


O  fair  was  she — my  lady  love — an'  lithe  as  the 
willow-tree, 

An'  like  a  miser's  money  are  her  parting  words 
t'  me. 

O  the  years  are  long  an'  lonesome  since  my  sweet 
heart  went  away! 

An'  I  think  o'  her  as  I  call  the  flocks:  "Co'  day! 
Co'  day!  Co'  day!" 

Ess-1 


Her  cheeks  have  stole  the  clover's  red,  her  lips  the 

odored  air, 
An'  the  glow  o'  the  morning  sunlight  she  took  away 

in  her  hair; 
Her  voice   had   the   meadow  music,   her  form  an* 

her    laughing    eye 
Have  taken  the  blue  o'  the  heavens  an'  the  grace 

o'  the  bending  rye. 

My  love  has  robbed  the  summer  day  —  the  field, 

the  sky,  the  dell, 
She  has  carried  their  treasurers  with  her,  she  has 

taken  my  heart  as  well; 
An*  if  ever,  in  the  further  fields,  her  feet  should 

go  astray 
May  she  hear  the  good  God  calling  her:   "Co'  day! 

Co'  day!    Co'  day!" 


[56] 


THE  WEAVER'S  DYE 

There's  many  a  hue  an'  some  I  knew  in  the  skeins 

of  a  weaver  old — 
Ah,  there  is  the  white  o'  the  lily  hand  an'  the  glow 

o'  the  silky  gold! 
An'  the  crimson  missed  in  the  lips  we  kissed  an* 

the  blue  o'  the  maiden's  eye; 
O,  look  at  the  wonderful  web  of  life,  an'  look  at 

the  weaver's  dye! 


[57] 


THE  SLUMBER  SHIP 

A  LULLABY 

Jack  Tot  is  as  big  as  a  baby's  thumb, 
And  his  dinner  is  only  a  drop  and  a  crumb 
And  a  wee  little  sailor  is  he. 

Heigh  ho! 
A  very  fine  sailor  is  he. 

He  made  his  boat  of  a  walnut  shell; 

He  sails  her  at  night,  and  he  steers  her  well 

With   the  wing  of  a   bumblebee. 

Heigh  ho! 
The  wing  of  a  bumblebee. 

She  is  rigged  with  the  hair  of  a  lady's  curl, 
And  her  lantern  is  made  of  a  gleaming  pearl, 
And  it  never  goes  out  in  a  gale. 

Heigh  ho! 
It  never  goes  out  in  a  gale. 

[58] 


Her  mast  is  made  of  a  very  long  thorn; 
She's  a  bell  for  the  fog,  and  a  cricket's  horn, 
And  a  spider  spun  her  sail. 

Heigh  ho! 
A  spider  he  spun  her  sail. 

She  carries  a   cargo  of  baby  souls, 

And  she  crosses  the  terrible  Nightmare  Shoals, 

On  her  way  to  the  Isles  of  Rest. 

Heigh  ho! 
The  beautiful  Isles  of  Rest. 

The  Slumber  Sea   is  the  sea  she  sails, 
While  the  skipper  is  telling  incredible  tales 
With  many  a  merry  jest. 

Ho!    ho! 
He's  fond  of  a  merry  jest. 

When  the  little  folks  yawn  they're  ready  to  go, 
And  the  skipper  is  lifting  his  sail — he  ho! 
In  the  swell  how  the  little  folks  nod! 

Ha!    ha! 
Just  see  how  the  little  folks  nod! 


And  some  have  sailed  off  when  the  sky  was  all  black 
And  the  poor  little  sailors  have  never  come  back, 
But  have  steered  for  the  City  of  God. 

Heigh  ho! 
The  beautiful  City  of  God. 


[60] 


THE  ROBIN'S  WEDDING 

In    the   fashion    of    a    certain    old    Yankee   nursery 
tale 

Young  robin-red  breast  had  a  beautiful  nest  an'  he 

says  to  his  love  says  he: 
It's  ready  now  on  a  rockin'  bough 
In  the  top  of  a  maple-tree. 
I've  lined  it  with  down  an'  the  velvet  brown  from 

the  waist  of  a  bumblebee. 


They  were  married  next  day,  in  the  land  o'  the  hay, 

the  lady  bird  an'  he, 

The  bobolink  came  an'  the  wife  o'  the  same 
An'  the  lark  an'  the  fiddle-de-dee. 
An'    the    crow   came    down    in    a    minister-gown — 

there  was  nothing  that  he  didn't  see. 
[61] 


He  fluttered  his  wing  as  they  ast  him  to  sing  an' 
he  tried  fer  t'  clear  out  his  throat; 

He  hemmed  an'  he  hawed  an'  he  hawked  an'  he 
cawed 

But  he  couldn'  deliver  a  note. 

The  swallow  was  there  an'  he  ushered  each  pair 
in  his  linsey  an'  claw-hammer  coat. 

The  bobolink  tried  fer  t'   flirt  with  the  bride,  in  a 

way  that  was  sassy  an'  bold, 
An*   the    notes    that    he    took    as    he    shivered    an' 

shook 

Had  a  sound  like  the  jingle  o'  gold. 
He  sat  on  a  brier  an'  laughed  at  the  choir  an'  told 

'em  the  music  was  old. 

The    sexton    he    came — Mr.    Spider    by    name — a 

citizen  hairy  an'  gray. 

His  rope  in  a  steeple,  he  called  the  good  people 
That  live  in  the  land  o'  the  hay. 
The  ants  an'  the  squgs  an'  the  crickets  an'  bugs 

came  out  in  a  mighty  array. 

[62] 


A  number  came  down  from  ole  Barleytown  an'  the 

neighborin'  city  o'  Rye. 

An'  the  little  black  people  each  climbed  up  a  steeple, 
An'  sat  lookin'  up  at  the  sky; 
They  came  fer  t'  see  what  a  weddin'  might  be  an' 

they  furnished  the  cake  an'  the  pie. 


OLD  HOME,  GOOD-BYE! 

The  day  is  passing;    I  have  tarried  long; 
My  way  leads  far  through  paths  I  fear  to  try; 
But  as  I  go  I'll  cheer  my  heart  with  song — 
Old  home,  good-bye! 

In  hallowed  scenes  what  feet  have  trod  thy  stage! 
The  babe,  the  maiden  leaving  home  to  wed; 
The  young  man  going  forth  by  duty  led 
And  faltering  age. 

And  some,  returning  from  far  distant  lands, 
Fainting  and  sick  their  ways  to  thee  have  wended 
To  feel  the  sweet  ministry  of  loving  hands, 
Their  journeys  ended. 

Thou  hadst  a  soul — thy  goodly  prop  and  stay 
That  kept  the  log,  the  compass  and  the  chart, 
And  showed  the  way  for  many  a  trusting  heart — 
The  long,  long  way! 


O  humble  home!    thou  hadst  a  secret  door 
Through  which  I  looked,  betimes,  with  wondering 

eye 
On  splendors  that  no  palace  ever  wore 

In  days  gone  by. 

From  narrow  walls  thy  lamp  gave  glad  release 
And  shone  afar  on  distant  lands  and  powers; 
A  sweet  voice  sang  of  love  and  heavenly  peace 
And  made  them  ours. 

Thou  hadst  a  magic  window,  broad  and  high — 
The  light  and  glory  of  the  morning  shone 
Through  it,  however  dark  the  day  had  grown 
Or  bleak  the  sky. 

Its  panes,  like  mighty  lenses,  brought  to  view 
A  fairer  home;    I  saw  in  depths  above 
The  timber  of  the  old  home  in  the  new — 
The  oak  of  love. 


THE  RUSTIC  DANCE 

To  Jones's  tavern,  near  the  ancient  woods, 

Drive  young  and  old  from  distant  neighborhoods. 

Here  comes  old  Crocket  with  his  great  bass  horn — 

Its  tone  less  fit  for  melody  than  scorn. 

Down  through  its  wrinkled  tubes,  from  first  to  last, 

A  century's  caravan  of  song  has  passed. 

The  boys  and  girls,  their  mirthful  sports  begun, 

With  noisy  kisses  punctuate  the  fun. 

Some  youths  look  on,  too  bashful  to  assist 

And  bear  the  sweet  disgrace  of  being  kissed. 


The  fiddler  comes — his  heart  a  merry  store, 
And  shouts  of  welcome  greet  him  at  the  door. 
Unlettered  man — how  rude  the  jest  he  flings! 
But  mark  his  power  to  wake  the  tuneful  strings! 
The  old  folks  smile  and  tell  how,  long  ago, 
Their  feet  obeyed  the  swaying  of  his  bow; 
[66] 


And  how  the  God-sent  magic  of  his  art 

To  thoughts  of  love  inclined  the  youthful  heart, 

And  shook  the  bonds  of  care  from  aged  men 

Who  'neath  the  spell  returned  to  youth  again. 

He  taps  the  fiddle-back  as  'twere  a  drum; 

The  raw  recruits  in  Cupid's  army  come; 

And  heeding  not  the  praise  his  playing  wins, 

The  ebullition  of  his  soul  begins. 

The  zeal  of  Crocket  turned  to  scornful  sound, 

Pursues  the  measure  like  a  baying  hound. 

The  fiddle's  notes  pour  forth  like  showers  of  rain, 

The  dancers  sway  like  wind-swept  fields  of  grain, 

And  midst  the  storm,  to  maddening  fury  stirred, 

The  thunder  of  the  old  bass  horn  is  heard. 


Beside  the  glowing  fire,  with  smiles  serene, 
An  aged  couple  sit  and  view  the  scene. 
Grandfather's  ears  the  reveille  have  caught, 
And  thronging  memories  fill  the  camps  of  thought. 
His  heels  strike  on  the  floor,  with  measured  beat, 
As  if  to  ease  a  tickling  in  his  feet. 


Year  after  year,  for  love  of  kith  and  kin, 

Grandmother's  hands  have  had  to  toil  and  spin; 

But  since  the  palsy  all  their  cunning  stole 

Her  mind  is  spinning  raiment  for  the  soul, 

Of  spotless  white  and  beauty  fit  to  wear, 

When  comes  the  Bridegroom  and  the  end  of  care. 


So  goes  the  dance  until  the  night  is  gone 
And  chanticleer  proclaims  the  breaking  dawn. 
The  waning  stars  show  pale  to  wearied  eyes 
And  seem  to  dance  cotillions  in  the  skies; 
As  if,  forsooth,  upon  the  journey  home 
Terpsichore's  music  filled  the  starry  dome. 


Blest  be  the  dance!    with  noisy  pleasure  rife 
Enough  to  temper  all  the  woe  in  life; 
What  magic  power  its  capering  measures  hold 
To  keep  the  hearts  of  men  from  growing  old! 
Stern  Father  Time,  rejoicing  in  the  scene, 
Forbears  to  reap  while  yet  the  fields  are  green. 
[68] 


TO  A  DEAD  CLASSMATE 

He   started   on   the   left   road   and   I   went   on  the 

right, 
We  were  young  and  strong  and  the  way  was  long 

and  we  travelled  day  an'  night; 
And  O  the  haste  and  O  the  waste!    and  the  rush 

of  the  busy  throng! 
The    worried    eye,    and    the    quick   good-bye,  and 

the  need  to  hurry  along! 


Odd  times  we  met  on  the  main  highway  and  told 

our  hopes  and  fears, 
And   after   every    parting    came    a   wider    flood   of 

years. 
I  love  to  tell  of  the  last  farewell,  and  this  is  the  way 

it  ran: 
"I  don't  know  when  I'll  see  you  again—take  care 

of  yourself,  ol'  man." 


Put  the  Beta  pin  upon  his  breast,  with  rosemary 

and  rue, 
The  cap  and  gown,  the  scarlet  and  brown  and  the 

symbol  of  '82, 
And  lay  him  low  with  a  simple  word  as  the  loving 

eye  grows  dim: 
"He  took  care  of  more  than  his  share — O  Christ! 

take   care   of  him." 

The  snow  is  falling  on  the  head  and  aye  the  heart 

grows   cold; 
The  new  friend  comes  to  claim  a  share  of  that  we 

gave  the  old, 
And  men  forget  while  the  eye  is  wet  and  bend  to 

the  lug  of  the  load, 
And  whether  or  when  they  will  meet  you  again  is 

ever  a  chance  of  the  road. 

The  babes  are  boys,  the  boys  are  men,  and  slowly, 
year  by  year, 

New  faces  throng  the  storied  halls  and  old  ones  dis 
appear. 

[70] 


As  the  hair  is  grayed   and   the   red    lips    fade    let 

friend  be  friend,  for  aye 
We  come  and  go  and  ere    we    know   have    spoken 

a  long  good-bye. 


OF  GOD  OR  C^SAR 

TO   MY   FRIEND   A.    B. 

The  veil  of  care  is  lifted  from  his  face! 

How  smooth  the  brow  where  toil  had  left  its  trace! 

How  confident  the  look,  how  calm  the  eyes 

Once  keen  with  life  and  restless  enterprise! 

And  gone  the  lines  that  marked  the  spirit's  haste 

To  do  its  work,  nor  any  moment  waste. 

Imperial  peace  and  beauty  crown  his  head, 

God's  superscription  writ  upon  the  dead. 

Behold,  herein,  his  dream,  his  inmost  thought 

As  if  in  time-washed  Parian   marble  wrought. 

Truly  he  read  the  law  we  must  obey: 

Man  moulds  the  image  and  God  gives  the  clay, 

And  if  it's  cast  of  God  or  Caesar  is 

To  each  all  render  what  is  rightly  his. 


[72] 


DEAR  TO  MY  GOD  ARE  THE  RILLS 

Thousands  at  noontide  are  climbing  the  hills  under 

Nain,  like  an  army 
Fleeing  the  carnage  of  war,  seeking  where  it  may 

rest  and  take   counsel; 
Some  with  the  blind  or  the  palsied,  some  bearing 

the  sick  on  their  shoulders, 
Lagging  but  laboring  hard,  so  they  be  not  too  far 

from  the  Prophet; 
Some  bringing  only  a  burden  of  deep  and  inveterate 

longing. 
Hard   by  the  gate  of  the  city  their  Captain  halts 

and  is  waiting. 
Closer  the   multitude   presses  and  widens  afar  on 

the  hillside; 
Thronged  are  the  ways  to  the  city  with  eager  and 

hastening  comers. 
Heard  ye  ?     A  man  was  delivered  from  death  by 

his  power,  and  the  story 

[73] 


Crosses  the   murmuring   host   like  a  wave  passing 

over  the  waters, 
How  at  the  touch  of  his  finger  this  day,  the  dead 

rose  and  was  living. 
Hushed  are  the  people;    the  Prophet  is  speaking; 

his  hand  is  uplifted — 
Lo!  the  frail  hand  that  ere  long  was  to  stop  the  mad 

rush  of  the  tempest. 
Quickly  their  voices  are  hushed,   and  the   fear  of 

Jehovah  is  on  them. 

Jesus  stood  high  on  a  hillock.     His  face,  so  divinely 

impassioned, 
Shone  with  the  light  that  of  old  had  illumined  the 

dreams  of  the  prophets. 
Gently  he  spake,  like  a  shepherd  who  calleth  his 

flock  to  green   pastures. 

Hiding  her  face  and  apart  from  the  people,  a  woman 

stood  weeping, 
Daughter   of  woe!     on    a    rosary   strung   with   her 

tears  ever  counting 

[74] 


Treasures  her  heart  had  surrendered  and  writ  on 

her  brow  was  the  record. 
Hope  and  the  love  of  her  kindred  and  peace  and 

all   pleasure  had  left  her 
Chained   to  the   pillar  of  life   like  a   captive,   and 

Shame  was  her  keeper. 


Long  spake  the  Prophet,  and  scarcely  had  finished 

when  came  the  afflicted, 
Loudly  entreating:  "Make  way  for  the  blind!"  and 

the  people  were  parted, 
Silent  with  pity,  and  many  were  suffered  to  pass; 

but  the  woman 
Felt  no  miraculous  touch,  for  the  press   kept   her 

back   and   rebuked  her. 
"Why   comest   thou   to   the    Prophet?"   they   said. 

"Get  thee  hence  and  be  silent; 
"He  hath  no  mercy  for  thee  or  thy  kind";    and 

the  woman  stood  weeping. 
Now  when  the  even  was  come  over  Nain,  and  the 

bridge  of  the  twilight, 

[75] 


Silently  floating  aloft  on  the  deepening  flood  of  the 

shadows, 
Rested  its  timbers  of  gold  on  the  summits  of  Tabor 

and   Hermon, 
Jesus   came,   weary,   to  sup   at  the   house  of  one 

Simon,   a   Pharisee, 
Dwelling   at   Nain.     Far   behind   him   the   woman 

came,  following  slowly; 
Entered  the  gate   in  the  dusk,  and  when  all  were 

reclining  at  supper, 
Stood  by  the  Prophet,  afraid,  like  a  soul  that  has 

come  to  its  judgment, 
Weeping,  her  head  bowing  low,  her  hair   hanging 

loose  on   her  shoulders. 
Then  there  was  silence,  and  Jesus  was  moved,  so 

he  spake  to  the  woman: 
"Daughter,  what  grieves  thee  so  sore?"    and  she 

spake  not,  but  dumb  with  her  weeping 
Sank  at  his  feet;   and  her  tears  fell  upon  them  like 

rain,  and  she  kissed  them. 
Simon,  amazed  when  the  Prophet  forbade  not  the 

woman  to  touch  him, 

[76] 


Rose  to  rebuke  her;  but  seeing  His  face,  how  it 
shone  with  compassion, 

Waited;  and  Jesus  then  spake:  "I  have  some 
what  to  say  to  thee,  Simon. 

"A  man  had  two  debtors  of  pence,  and  the  one 
owed  five  hundred, 

"The  other  owed  fifty;  and  when  they  had  nothing 
to  pay  he  forgave  them 

"All  that  they  owed;  wherefore  which  of  the  two 
will  most  love  him  ?" 

Simon  said,  thoughtfully:  "He,  I  suppose,  to  whom 
most  was  forgiven." 

Jesus  made  answer:  "Thou  judgest  well.  Con 
sider  this  woman. 

"  Weary  with  travel  and  sore  were  my  feet,  but 
thou  gavest  no  water; 

"  She,  to  wash  them,  hath  given  the  tears  of  her 
love  and  her  sorrow, 

"  Wiping  them  dry  with  her  hair;  and  hath  kissed 
them  and  bathed  them  with  ointment. 

"Wherefore,  O  woman,  weep  not!  I  forgive  thee 
thy  sins  which  are  many. 

[77] 


"Go  thou  in  peace."     And  those  who  were  with  Him 
at  meat  were  astonished. 

"  Lo!  she  spoke  not,  she  asked  not  and  yet  He  for 
gave  her,"  they  whispered. 

***** 

Dear  to  my  God  are  the  rills  that  flow  from  the 
mountains  of  sorrow 

Over  the  faces  of  men  and  in  them  is  a  rainbow  of 
promise. 

Strong  is  the  prayer  of  the  rills  that  oft  bathed  the 
feet  of  The  Master. 


THE    END 


[78] 


3acheller,  I 


In  various 


moods 


B121 


va 


